


nothing in my nature tells me not to do bad things

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy, the adventures of mole woman and rockstar, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: “You’re the king now, Rome. You conquered Turkey and then spat in their face.” Her voice is soft, steady, and her hand keeps moving, a constant rhythm. “A boy king, the crown too big for his head.”





	nothing in my nature tells me not to do bad things

**Author's Note:**

> SLIME PUPPIES WITH FEELINGS
> 
> things i researched for this fic: expensive yachts, cynthia rowley caftans, expensive swimsuits

Gerri is Roman’s first call when he’s let out of the hotel, his fingers sliding to her contact information without even thinking, Laird and Karl watching him from a few paces back, unsure of how he’s doing, success of the meeting notwithstanding. He still has that video of Karl shitting in a bucket, he thinks about texting it to Gerri too. 

“What is it, Roman?” Gerri’s voice is tired, worried, as worried as she gets, tense, anxious. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the congressional hearings or because she’s heard about the hostage situation, or because of the debt or because or because or because. An infinite number of reasons. 

“We got the money,” he says, quiet, doesn’t want to be overheard, “but I don’t know about, you know, it or, like, the whole thing.” 

“You have to trust your gut, Roman. Isn’t that what you learned in management training?” She’s distracted now, he can imagine someone thrusting papers into her face or another call coming in. There’s a desperation to keep her on the line, to hold her attention. A familiar voice, a favorite voice. 

“Laird wants to marry you,” he says, words coming out before thoughts. He can imagine the eyebrow raise on the other end of the call. 

“How did that _even_ come up?” she asks, humor and weariness stitched together in her tone. 

"You know, a good old-fashioned game of’ fuck, marry kill’ while being held hostage. At least he didn't want to fuck you. Yuck. Gross. Can you imagine? Gross."

“Roman, _you_ want to fuck me” Her voice is quieter, like she’s tucked herself in a corner to have this conversation, like she doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “Are you coming on the yacht?” she says, changing the subject, louder now. Someone must be looking at her. 

“Yeah, tomorrow. We have to deal with ambassadors? Like, a lunch or something? At the embassy? I don’t fucking know, I just want to get the fuck out of here.” Tiredness hits him, the reality of what he’s gone through. He looks over his shoulder, just to make sure there’s not men there with guns, just to make sure they’re really out and free to go. 

Laird and Karl have their heads bent together, soft voices, furtive glances, scrolling through their phones. “Okay, fuckfaces,” he says, ending the call with Gerri, not even a sign off, thumb sliding across the screen. “Let’s get out of here.”

-

He gets the sense his siblings don’t know what to do with him, unsure of where he stands now. This is the first time, perhaps, that any of them have been in any real danger, any actual peril. Not even Kendall, at the acme of his drug usage, was ever really at risk. There’s a fog of ribbing, of gentle insults tossed his way, and then he hears Gerri’s voice, spearing through the cloud, hitting him, making him alert. 

“...would have been really traumatizing if you weren't already so fucked up.” He looks up, sees her smiling face, her gentle eyes, and somehow that kind of pity is worse coming from her than from anyone else. But it’s Kendall who gets fired back on, for idiotic comments about caesar salad at the Four Seasons. And all he can think about now is a cold beer, condensation seeping into his hands.

After he talks to his brother and sister, after he talks to his father, Roman thinks he’s all talked out, thinks he never wants to be genuine with another human again, for as exhausted as he feels in this moment. But he knocks on Gerri’s door, the room next door to his, and she moves aside to let him in without comment, closes the door behind them, wordlessly hands him a glass of scotch - whether it’s hers or she’s had one waiting for him, he doesn’t know.

“Is it always like this? This fucking tiring?” He flops on her bed, leaning back on his elbows, looking at her. She stands, just far enough away that he can’t touch her, hand on her hip, looking at him like he’s a puzzle, like she’s trying to decide where the next piece fits in. 

“Is what always like this?” she asks, soft, considering. 

“Like. This.” He gestures at himself, at the space between them, at the world around them. “Being a fucking human. Talking about real fucking stuff. Why does anyone do it?” 

“Because we’re not all psychopaths, Roman,” she says, and there’s the bite that’s been missing from her voice, the acidity he’s missed. He sips gratefully at the alcohol, relishes the burn at the back of his throat. 

“I told dearest Daddy not to take the deal,” he says, draining the glass, and Gerri reaches for it, takes it from his hand, their fingers just brushing. “It just didn’t feel right.” He flutters his hand above his stomach. “Here.” 

“About time you used that instinct of yours for something besides predicting movie failures,” she says, a twist to her lips, setting the glass down, moving back towards the bed, one leg on either side of his, standing tall above him, and he gulps. 

Gerri dressed for the office is different than Gerri dressed for the yacht. Her lips are bright, her clothes float around her body, and Roman feels the twitch of his dick at the sight of her standing there, her power, her strength still thrumming from her, still threaded in every pore. 

Slowly she kneels on the bed, a knee on either side of his slim hips and she settles there for a moment, sits, weight balanced between her legs and his thighs. “You were brave in the hotel,” she says, leaning down as the words slither from her lips. “For the first time in your life, you did something right.” She always walks the fine line, balances on the knife’s edge. “You got the money and you said no to the money and now you’re here.” Her lips caress his ear, her breath warm and soft, and it makes his whole body shudder. His hands come to her waist, silken fabrics obscuring the shape of her from him. “You can’t say no to me,” she says, and her teeth nip at his earlobe.

It should scare him how true it is, but he also knows she would never steer him wrong. Knowing Kendall the longest, being Shiv’s godmother, none of it matters. He’s her favorite, right here, beneath her, looking up at her with eyes she doesn’t quite know how to read. “No,” he chokes out, and he squeezes at her waist, at the soft flesh there. She squirms at the touch, ever so slightly ticklish, a fact she’s tried her best to hide all her life. 

“No weaknesses,” she told him one night, with his hands on her bare waist, his fingers twitching ever so slightly, finding those sensitive spots, Roman crowing with laughter as she spasmed away from him, giggling at his touch. “You can’t tell anyone,” she’d said, pinning him on the couch, just the way she has him pinned now. 

He leans up to kiss her neck, her collar bone, and she smells like sun-warmed fruit, like all the citrus in the world has come together to adorn her skin. She smells different on the yacht, too. Even though this is objectively one of the most stressful times in recent memory, she’s shed some skin, left something behind. 

His dick twitches in his pants, he can feel himself getting hard. He knows Gerri can feel it too, can see the smugness on her face. She knows all the models he’s been with - he’s tried to be with. She knows everything about him, and she’s the only one who can do this. “They’ll be wondering where we are,” she says, pulling away from him, smirk on her face, hand trailing against his thigh, those nails filed and blunt, scraping at his trousers. “Let’s go up on deck.” 

-

Gerri wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Logan special ordered sunshine and clear skies. She sips her cocktail through a straw, tucked up on a couch at the aft of the boat, back to the sun, hat on her head, book in hand. After the dreariness and cold of New York, of all the places they’ve been in the last six months, the buttery yellow sun and soft light everywhere feels strange, different, like they’ve arrived on a new planet, unsullied by their greed, by their pride. 

She thinks this even as she’s on a two hundred million dollar yacht in the middle of the ocean, not another family in sight. 

Roman appears, shoulders hunched, shorts on his spindly legs, and he slides onto the couch, slides right next to her, almost touching her but not quite. “Still feeling all sick and anxious?” he asks, his voice high, mocking, that tone he gets when he’s touching on something real but doesn’t want to say it outright. 

“Better, now,” she says, because he made her laugh, with his offer of bets to Karl and Frank, because sometimes just sitting next to him puts her at ease, for a myriad of reasons. Is it because of what they have? Because of who he is? Because having as many Roys on her side can only be a good thing? She turns a page in her book, something Karolina tossed at her as a recommendation, bought at an airport, good enough to take on the boat. 

“Do we have a plan?” he asks, and there’s hope in his voice, even in the yawning void of this Shakespearean travesty. She tilts her head at him, one hand holding her hat in place. She sips from her straw and waits him out. “Do _we_ have a plan?” he asks again, gesturing between them. “An escape hatch if we need it?” 

“I think,” she starts, cautious, weighing her words, calculating every syllable, “we need to wait this out, weather the storm. Not to be funny, but we can’t jump ship. Not yet. Despite our surroundings.” Roman grunts, acquiescence and dissatisfaction all in one. He slouches ever so slightly more, his shoulder overlapping Gerri’s, her bare arm holding the book in front of her. 

“Who do you really think it’s going to be?” he asks, looking out at the ocean, looking away from the woman next to him. Disinterested and so very interested all at once. Asking for her confidence while they’re alone together, while there aren’t any other listening ears or prying ears to spy. 

“I think Tom makes the most sense,” she says, because she trusts him, because the words ring true. “But I don’t know if Logan thinks he’s important enough.” She’s glad Shiv isn’t here to hear, whether or not Shiv might admit it. 

Roman huffs out a laugh. “Tom,” he scoffs. “Makes sense we’d be better off wiping our asses with him than letting him run ATN for the rest of his life.”

“He’s harmless,” Gerri hedges. “Stupid. But harmless.” Roman laughs again, that same sort of small bark, and without asking, without pause, slides himself further down the sofa, his head coming to rest on Gerri’s thighs, cheek against the linen fabric of her pants. 

Gerri freezes for a moment, surprised more than anything, and transfers her book to the other hand, her now-free hand gently running through Roman’s hair, ruffled from the sea air. Her nails scrape at his scalp, even as her fingers soothe, the only sound from their little corner of the yacht the occasional turn of a page, the soft sound of the sea air blowing past them. Her hat isn’t enough to hide the small smile on her face.

-

The knock on her door at night is expected, anticipated, whiskey glasses poured, nothing like a night spent wrapped up in insomnia and dread to bring two people together. Roman sits on the edge of her bed for the second time that day, looking wired with caffeine and panic, unsure of where to put his hands, unsure of how to proceed. 

“Nothing is helped by your distress, Roman,” Gerri says, biting off words with surprising vigor, sharp enough to make Roman stand to attention, to straighten his back ever so slightly. “You’re the least likely target, at least right now.” She sits next to him, the mattress dipping slightly, their thighs touching. 

“Oh, so I’m not helping? Not even a little?” His hand creeps toward her waist and she bats it away, laughs, an easiness around her shoulders for the first time. 

“You must be used to it, after all these years, being useless,” she says, but there’s humor there, a bite to her words. She remembers how sensitive he was earlier, how scared. There’s a different tenor to what he needs. So she pushes him back, falls with him, and they lay on the bed facing each other. 

When her hand touches his cheek, it’s gentle, thumb brushing against his lips. “What do you want?” she asks, so soft, breathy, and it’s so quiet in her room that she thinks she can hear Tom and Shiv arguing down the hallway, that maybe even Logan’s snores are floating down the stairs. Roman turns his head away from her, the moonlight hitting his face, silvering it in the low light. 

Her hand finds the elastic of his pajama pants, slides underneath the silk, into his boxers, finds his cock with ease, warm, heavy, and her fingers start to move. “This is it, isn’t it?” she says. “Everything else going on, people worried about prison and Congress and every other fucking thing, but you just want to come. You just want someone to fondle your cock.” His face turns back, eyes flicking to hers, unreadable in the dark. 

“You’re the king now, Rome. You conquered Turkey and then spat in their face.” Her voice is soft, steady, and her hand keeps moving, a constant rhythm. “A boy king, the crown too big for his head.” It’s like a bedtime story, like a fairy tale she’s spinning, soothing except for the fact that she can feel him hardening against her palm. 

“Do you think I can do it?” he asks, a genuine question, his voice small in the nighttime, his bravado left at the door, just Roman laying here on her bed, nothing to hide behind. 

Gerri doesn’t speak, not for a while, her hand still moving, thumb circling the tip, feeling her own arousal grow, languidly, like they have nothing but time. “I know so,” she says, because she believes it, because she wouldn’t have signed on to a losing team, because she knows in her heart he’s always just needed to be given a chance, for someone to take him seriously. 

She straddles him again, mirroring their positions from earlier, her hand still between them, but she lets him go, uses her damp fingers to push down his pants, push aside his underwear. His hands scrabble at her nightshirt, one long silky thing, worn in deference to location, pushed up to her hips. She’s not wearing anything underneath and she can see the widening of his eyes at the discovery. There’s wetness already, and his hand slides against her, head tilting back at the feel of her against his fingers. 

“You’re very predictable, Rome,” she says, “I knew you’d be here.” If this is what routine feels like, he thinks he’ll go so far as to start keeping a calendar. “You can’t get enough,” she says, her voice sliding around him even as she lowers herself onto him, as he fills her with ease, as his back arches up to meet her, their hips touching, hands caught somewhere in between, finding purchase, finding space, finding each other. 

They’ve done this enough that the rhythm is easy to find, that Roman knows to flick his fingers against her clit as they move, as he thrusts. She loves to be above him, knees bent on either side, knows she’ll be sore in the morning, knows that it’s worth it right now. 

Her body moves like a wave, hips, chest, shoulders, all cresting as her head tilts, hair falling, catching the light, hand sliding up her body, caressing herself, pinching her own nipple, gasping at the pain. Roman mimics her movements, her other breast in his hand, hefting the weight, holding her, and she falters only when his fingers twist, when a sharp ache shot through with pleasure flies along her spine. 

Her hand touches his chest, his t-shirt sweaty, wet, dark spots, and her fingers curl in the fabric, pulling him upward ever so slightly as she bends down to meet him. “We can do this, Rome,” she whispers into his lips, before kissing him softly, gently, then nipping at his lower lip, always the salty with the sweet. 

He thrusts up once, twice, a third time, and when she comes, it’s with a gasp, the sound of a wave lapping at the shore, and she levers herself off of him, a graceful dismount. “Sleep well,” she murmurs, “this might be our last night alive.” 

-

When Roman’s voice rings out in her defense, her hand flies up to her mouth, to shut inside whatever threatens to spill out. She’s afraid of what he might say, if the twenty-four hours of Roman taking life seriously was only a passing fad, or if it’s a change that’s come over him for keeps. 

“Because it’s my opinion,” he says, and she sucks in a breath, tries not to move, like a gazelle trying to stay out of the way of a lion. But then he elaborates, he talks the words of corporate strategy, spins the story of optics and appearance, and what’s best for the company. The language Logan knows, the one he respects. And she can feel the heat die off, can feel the easing of her heart, no longer worried that she’s in a vise, ready to be squeezed to death at any moment. 

There’s an uneasy truce as breakfast disbands, a quiet pall over the whole of the yacht. Connor’s still mumbling about throwing himself overboard, Willa’s tearing her hair out about reviews for _Beaches_ or _Islands_ or whatever the fuck her play is called. The only two who can be certain they aren’t going to be asked to take the fall making the loudest noises, whining the most. 

Gerri tilts her head at Roman, the implicit gesture to follow her, and he does, without question, without fail, just one step behind her, he always has her back. She knows that now, knows it in her bones. Her loyalty is spoken of, praised, and Roman has won it for his own. 

When the door closes behind them, he’s on her, kissing her full on the mouth, her lipstick smeared to oblivion within seconds, and she can’t stop to care, enjoys the frenzy of his affection, the high he’s feeling, the adrenaline that has them both moving together. 

He kneels in front of her, looks up at her with those eyes that contain depths, multitudes, facets she can’t even guess at yet. And when his hands push up the cotton of her dress, the green patterned fabric even more chaotic as it wrinkles, she can already feel the rush sliding through her, the wetness growing between her thighs. He mouths against her underwear, damp from both sides now. She pushes at the elastic waistband, pushes it down while Roman holds her dress up. 

“Thank you,” she says, because the gratitude she feels can’t be fully said, can’t be verbalized. The safety he gave her, the protection he offered. Security in the world of Waystar Royco doesn’t have a price, she can’t thank him enough. He bunches the fabric of her dress in one hand and doesn’t say anything to her, just holds her hip with one hand, fingers pressing into her smooth thigh, mouth pressing against her center.

Her head hits the back of the door as his tongue begins to lick, to taste, to lave. He’s quick with his tongue, she’s always known it, and he proves her right in this arena too. His teeth move against her, scraping at the sensitive flesh and she feels her knees go weak, grateful for the hand against her, grateful for the wood at her back. 

She takes the burden of holding up her skirt, thinks about pulling the whole dress off to make things easier, but doesn’t want to ruin Roman’s plans, whatever they may be. Because he’s a man with a plan, for what might be the first time. He’s not talking about turkey movies or fucking women at penthouse parties. He’s talking business and money and cents, and he knows what he wants to do. 

And if what he wants to do right now is this, his tongue against her clit, short nails digging at her hips, she’s not going to stop him. One hand leaves her leg, his thumb pressing into her, the sudden pressure making her squirm, making her spasm. She mumbles something, unsure of the words she’s even trying to say. And he keeps working at her, works at her until she comes - not just once, but twice, her skirt sweaty in her palm, one hand in his hair, and she can’t even think about whether or not she’s hurting him, because all she can think about is the feeling of his tongue flicking against her, of his mouth sucking at all that wetness, filling up on the taste of her. 

“Thank you,” she says again, when he sits back on his haunches, when he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and he just nods, smiles, looks up at her the way he always does.

-

He gets her into a swimsuit, tells it’s illegal to be on a yacht in the middle of the ocean without wearing a swimsuit at least once. She slides into one, black, perfunctory, costs more than all of the swimsuits she had growing up put together. She doesn’t miss Roman’s stare, the way his mouth goes slightly slack. 

She sits by the pool, feet dangling in the cool water, no one else in sight. Kendall’s on his way to a press conference, Greg sent along, to be a comfort or a helper, or just to get his fungus-ridden feet away. Shiv and Tom are huddled away somewhere - Gerri’s barely seen them, just their matching sad eyes and clenched mouths. 

Roman swims in front of her, easy strokes back and forth. He flicks water at her, hits her stomach. She kicks a little, flaps her feet, water splashing on his face. Retaliation comes with cupped hands and water dumped over her head, her hair almost immediately frizzing at the moisture. He just grins, cocksure and young, hops back in the pool, goes under for a long time, longer than she’d expect him to last. 

When he pops up, it’s right beside her, his arms crossed, resting against the edge of the pool. 

A thought occurs to her. “You’re COO now. Just you. Whatever else happens.”

“And you’re the name on the piece of paper.” He stares at her, blocking the sun with one hand. 

She stares back for a long moment. “Fancy that.”

“Ooh yes, fancy that,” he says, putting on a ridiculous British accent, arcing back into the pool, making a big wave as his head hits the water. “Can we do it?” he asks, treading water in the center. 

Gerri looks at him, a smile on her face. 


End file.
